


Secrets

by sensitivebore



Series: Lady Lights [6]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elsie and Sarah, and secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets

Elsie looks around furtively, makes sure that Sarah is busy in the kitchen for the next few minutes and that no customers are in the front. Casually, she slips outside, around the corner of the shop, and she produces the cigarette and matches she's pinched from their usual spot on the kitchen table. She lights one and inhales carefully, holds it in, exhales. Sarah would tear the roof off if she saw her doing this, particularly after all of the prim little comments and wrinkled nose looks Elsie has cast her way when she smokes. It's just that she's been nervous lately; she can't say why exactly, she's not sure if it's just some kind of hormonal spike — unlikely, her blood stopped a couple of years ago — or the fall weather changing or working too hard, or all of them. She just knows she feels nervous, and a few days ago she had nicked a cigarette, smoked it here beside their pretty rhododendrons, well out of view of the windows. It made her feel better, at least for a minute.

She inhales again, exhales. Wonders if she's growing into a habit. Sarah has one first thing when she wakes, last thing before she sleeps. Though Elsie doesn't like to admit it, it's become comforting to her, the deep smell of tobacco, the smoke fragrant with a touch of mint in Sarah's particular brand. Mixed with her spicy soap, it's become the outline of her lover in the dark; she can breathe her in before she can even see her at night, when Sarah rolls over to her, gathers her up, kisses her with that rich chocolate taste always lingering on her tongue. That taste of infinite cakes baked and candies made, of cigarettes mixed with all of it. Elsie smiles, flicks the ash. Inhales again. Looks around to make sure she's alone.

Inside, Sarah is mixing batter, filling tart pans. When the last cup is filled, she slides them into the hot oven, wipes her hands. Bites back a smile as she sighs with relief at the absence of discomfort. No binding, no cutting, no twisting. She glances out into the front, then slides her hands beneath her dress, checks to make sure her chemise is pulled down smoothly. Elsie hasn't noticed yet and Sarah isn't keen for her to; she'll raise the roof if she notices, but damn — she works all day in a hot kitchen, she's not bothering with the horrid things anymore. Besides, why should she? They aren't a maid and a housekeeper anymore; they're two women who own their own premises, make their own living. They can damn well be comfortable in their shop, their home. Still — her Elsie is a stickler for propriety and doesn't embrace change the way Sarah does, so she's worn one of her full-length aprons today, tied over bust and hip, hoping to keep her little secret for awhile. Maybe if Elsie gets used to seeing her without it before she realizes it, she'll understand that it's nothing to fuss over. Sarah had started by loosening her ribbons, letting the corset out a bit farther every day until she finally just tucked it in a crowded cabinet of kitchen implements, all the way in the back. It was the only place to put it where the infernal woman wouldn't clean twice a day.

The bell on the front door chimes softly and she smiles; it reminds her of Elsie's keys that she had heard for so many years, sweeping up and down the halls of Downton. She's glad those keys are gone, if she's honest. Elsie had a right to be proud of wearing them then, they were a sign of her ambition, of her hard work, but they were also a badge of servitude. Now the keys to their shop, to their rooms, are kept on a pretty ribbon on a hook in the kitchen or are in the bottom of Elsie's handbag when they're out. It's a sign, to Sarah at least, that's she happy. That's she no longer defined only by the work she does.

The older woman wanders into the kitchen, smiles shyly at her. That smile still undoes Sarah, that slow, lovely upturn of lips, the lowered lashes. She damns the tarts she just put in the oven for baking so slowly, for making her wait around in the kitchen when she could be pushing her woman down across their bed, sliding her hands over her generous hips, thrusting her fingers into her tight and ready cunt. She growls a little at Elsie and flicks a dish towel over the counter, tidying for lack of anything better to do.

"Something the matter, my wee turnip?" The Scottish voice is always sweet, but it's sweeter still — mocking, if one is honest — when she knows Sarah is frustrated, when she knows she wants her and can't have her. Elsie perches on the edge of the kitchen table, slides back, swings her feet, tilts her head. With an eye toward the oven, Sarah throws the towel down and steps between her lover's parted knees, threads her arms around her waist. Bites and nips at her smooth throat in punishment.

"Ye' know ( _bite)_  good and well ( _nip)_  that I've tarts in the oven ( _harder bite_ ) so why do ye' insist on — bein' — so — pretty?" She works her tongue slowly over the abused skin, laves it, loves it, suckles and kisses as Elsie rocks slowly in her arms with quiet little moans and noises of contentment, of encouragement. Sarah stops for a moment with her mouth pressed against soft skin and inhales silently. She smells of smoke, of cigarette smoke, which is odd because Sarah hasn't smoked around her in days. She kisses again when her lover makes a sad sound of disappointment at her hesitation, kisses and smiles and kisses again. It's crazy, but Sarah would almost swear that she's sneaking cigarettes. There's been the odd one or two missing from her pack, and she had written it off as her smoking more than she remembered, or perhaps dropping one or two, but that wasn't right. She knew exactly how many she smokes and when and she never dropped them; they were too expensive to waste. And this isn't the first time she's caught this strong aroma on her. She wonders.

Elsie loops her arms around Sarah's neck, lightly strokes the shining brown curls, revels in the tributes being placed around her collarbones, the hollow of her throat. She shouldn't tease so when Sarah's hard at work in the kitchen, she knows, but she can't help it. It still makes her breathless, weak in the body when the younger woman turns on her, all teeth and lips and hungry eyes demanding her to yield. She had never felt desirable before Sarah — attractive, occasionally; admired, sometimes. But never this. She had never felt like this glowing thing, this fallen star, this discovered diamond, something that is coveted, something that someone wants to possess in the most erotic of ways. Elsie pulls at her lover, wants to close the space between them, wants her body pressed against Sarah's and when Sarah acquiesces, Elsie holds tight to her, urges her to continue her hard kisses, but — there's something else, something new. Sarah is softer, more pliable; her curves are pressing against her with delicious friction and undulation. She wonders.

When Sarah grasps her chin firmly and takes her mouth, penetrating her lips with a sweet sugared tongue — butter-cream, Elsie thinks helplessly, she's been mixing butter-cream icing — she begins to shake, to pull at Sarah's clothing; she wants to see if it's true, if she's really not wearing a corset, if there's only a layer or two of thin fabric between her hands and those beautiful breasts, the dusky rose nipples that stiffen and peak when she touches them. She doesn't care about propriety, she's glad, she wants it gone, wants it out of the way; she should care and perhaps she will later but not now.

When she does that, when Elsie begins groping at her dress, at her bust, trying to get her fingers beneath her neckline, trying to unbutton her placket, Sarah moans and deepens the kiss, ravishes the pretty mouth and yes — yes she definitely tastes of tobacco, she absolutely does, and Sarah doesn't care, not really. Yes, it's hypocritical and yes, she'll taunt her about it later, but right now she's all rich smoke and light tea and sweet biscuit and that dark honeyed something that's only her and right now she's all right with anything Elsie does, anything at all.

Sarah does remember, however, the tarts. She breaks away gasping, turns to the oven and grabs a towel, a mitt, and withdraws the pan. Throws it on the counter without looking, lets it skid to a halt next to the sink. That done, she grabs her lover by the wrist and pulls her roughly toward the bedroom.

Secrets, they both think, are not so bad sometimes. Sometimes, not always not mostly not frequently but  _sometimes_ , secrets keep a marriage sweet.


End file.
